


From Tower to Tower

by everybreatheverymove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ...Kinda, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Rapunzel Elements, Slow Burn, There's a reason it's rated as Explicit, Will definitely become darker and less Disney-esque later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-21 18:59:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: Rapunzel AU: Locked away in a tower for eighteen years by a witch claiming to be her Mother, long-haired Sansa seeks freedom and a chance to regain her crown as Princess of the kingdom. But the tower is high as she has no means to get down, aside from her incredibly long hair, and no guarantee of safety in the outside world she has been warned about. One night, when the witch is out, and a thief who climbs the tower seeking refuge happens upon her, she stuns herself by taking a chance and asking him to help her escape. Assuring him that she will have all charges against him dropped when he returns her to her rightful parents, she embarks on a series of first discoveries with her new bandit friend Jon.





	1. Chapter One

The food hadn't been worth the risk. He thinks this to himself as he swipes his sword down for yet another bang, clash against that of the Royal Guard before him.

The man is older, probably wiser. But he isn't as sharp, his sword does not cut the same as Jon's does. The steel isn't Valyrian, isn't handcrafted by a forger of a blacksmith.

The guard tires in that moment, his arm at his side, steel scraping against the mud, his own guard low.

He says something about paying for his crimes, about turning himself over and letting justice and mercy serve him kindly. But Jon only shrugs, brushes this offer off as a lame attempt to lessen the brutality of his own attack. He is not a violent man. But he will be, if need be.

With a final blow, his shoulder-blades pulling at the sensation, he swings the edge of his sword down to collide with the soldier's neck, cutting deep into the thin flesh, blood gushing free and spoiling Jon's wool clothes.

As the man falls, collapses into a pool of blood and death at his feet, Jon pauses, wielding hand shaking, chest panting. His mouth hands open, dry pink lips tainted red. His brown eyes darken and he falls to his knees, unable to stand any longer.

The inside of his elbow is bleeding, a gash running from the crease to his wrist, but cool blood spurts out from the space between his forearm and bicep, where he feels the deadly sting of metal clashing with skin. It burns horribly, but he imagines the pain is worse in his head than in reality.

Dragging himself from atop of the soldier's limp body, he rests the palms of his calloused hands flat on the ground, fingers curling into the mud, the sloppy brown muck encrusting beneath his nails.

Jon pushes himself up with little ease, the muscles of his arms aching as he tries to regain his balance, to stand and force himself onto two feet.

He can feel the wet of the mud soaking through his trousers, the thick grey leather turning dirty, temporarily staining from the struggle.

When he is up on both feet, he drops his hands down his sides, bruised and battered knuckles making his fists clench and unclench from the pain, the darkening patterns spreading by the second. This shall hurt for some time.

He grinds his front teeth together when he feels a stinging sensation shoot up his forearm, from his slashed-open elbow to his wounded wrist. Blood trickles from his fingertips, dropping into the soiled ground and falsifying all trace of his presence.

With a tentative step forward, he near stumbles over himself when his feet refuse to sync with his mind, refuse to obey his command. But he pushes forward, choosing instead to drop to his knees, ignoring the shuddering pain this creates on impact, and drag himself on bony knees and sore hands to the edge of the rope hanging by the tower's base.

It seems almost strange that a tower in the deep of the forest would be equipped this way, would be prepared for someone to climb its great height. But he lets the brief confusion slip to the back of his mind and focuses on the opportunity before him.

The guards will surely be after him, and before long he will be caught. His capture will surely lead to his sentencing before the King, and thus his hanging in the court would follow without delay. Thieves were martyrs, were they not? No matter the reasoning, no matter the need of the small folk, no matter if the perpetrator was an expert of the crime or a mere first-timer. Thieves were terrible human beings.

He was no different, had not been since his mother had passed and he had been forced to age suddenly, from twelve to eighteen in days. He had learned to defend himself, to defend his home, to make life as easy as he possibly could for himself.

But he was twenty now, and grown and strong and knowledgeable enough about the world he lived in. He was no longer a small lad of twelve who took on the weight of the world and carried it on his scrawny shoulders. His shoulders could bare the weight now, could carry what needed to be lifted, could accept his crimes.

Despite this, despite his long accepted fate that death shall one day soon toll at his door, he refuses to succumb so easily, so feebly to his destiny. Fate can wait another day. Let him have a good night's sleep first. Let them take him at dawn.

He tugs at the rope's strength, fist wrapped around the bottom wooden slat. It seemed steady, only swayed with the force of his pull but did not slip from its hanger, over the edge of the window. But its fixture is ingrained into the many branches and vines adorning the side of the tower, green leaves covering most of the rope and making it hard to spot where to step.

He will attempt it though, he determines, forcing himself up to stand and begin his climb. The rope ladder falters smoothly, but remains clinging against the tower's bricks. Death awaits him come morrow, anyhow.

Climbing up the ladder grows easier the higher he gets, the steeper the step. But he keeps checking a hand to his waist, making sure his sword was still in play. Perhaps he would need it.

The bow and bags stuffed full of arrows swinging on his bag shift his weight when he swaps from one foot to the other, from left and right and back again, boots pressing into the cool bricks. But sooner or later, he is reaching the top of the ladder and his hands are curling around the window's ledge.

With a final heave on his arms, he pulls himself through the tower's open window, landing on his back with a huff. The blood on his arm still spreads down his side and he attempts to throw a glance down the length of the tower, trying to spot any clear signs of his injury and whereabouts.

Unwilling to let himself be trapped by any passerby, he goes to untie the thick knots of rope that hang the ladder to the tower's inner walls.

The rope is thick, rough through its thickness but almost soft from its substance. It almost feels like a lady's hair, and he knits his brows at the realisation that the familiarity is truth. How could it be hair, that of a woman and no beast no less?

As he tries to untangle the knots, Jon realises that the softly rugged hair has no end, but instead lays flat at his feet, against the solemn grey bricks and curling around a corner.

"Let me live."

The words catch him off-guard, the soft voice of a fragile heart incarnate echoing throughout the room.

"Let me live, let me live."

The voice continues to whisper, speak to itself, almost like a prayer ushered in a winter wind's breeze, on repeat until a reply is heard.

Moving his right hand from the window's ledge and placing his left on the wall beside him, Jon rounds the corner of the small divide, rough palm smoothing along the bricks. He follows the path lead to him by the unbelievably long thread of thick hair, its light red tint glowing in the night's shadow.

The wall seems to form a full circle, as though it was hiding something, shielding what lay in its centre from anyone or anything who may manage to peer through but not transgress the high tower's window. They would be faced with a rounded blank wall, and drop all curiosity, not seek to venture further, to find what lay behind the wall.

The thickness of the tower tightens as he continues on, an illusion from the outside. He wonders how it could have been possible to have heard such a sweet voice when the space where its keeper surely lay was growing smaller with each step.

As the words begin to grow familiar to him, he recognises that they belong to a young woman. A girl even, perhaps.

She has yet to notice him, to look up from the rather laboured stitching she seems so occupied with. Her head is down but Jon takes note of her pale features, her lips as peachy as a spring flower and her cheeks rosy pink.

"Let me live," he heard her repeat to the silence, the words on her tongue over and over again, spurting them out as though she was condemned to do so forever. Perhaps she was, perhaps that is why she seemed to be shunned to such confined quarters. "and let me go."

She practically sings the words now, gentle voice turning melodious, and he cannot help but smile at her obvious innocence.

Jon takes in her face, from his place behind the wall's edge, and he admires her blue eyes from what he can see of them. They are clear, the colour of melting ice on a strangely warm winter's day.

His gaze shifts to her hair, glossy red and fire-kissed, lips taunt as he comes to the realisation that the hair belongs to her, and its roots are still very much attached to her head.

"Oh."

He glances back up at her face then, and his breath catches. His hands immediately fly up to his sides, bloody wrists beside his head, droplets of red pouring on the floor.

"I did not-"

"Who are you?"

Jon contemplates taking a step forward to reassure her. He is a thief, simple as that. He is no man to lay his unwanted hands on a woman. He refrains though, stays in his place but lowers his hands to avoid any blood spill on her abnormally long locks.

"Who are you?" It's his curiosity that gets the better of him in that moment.

"I asked you first." The girl, no older than he, points out, and Jon watches as she moves the garment in her lap to the side, putting her stitching on hold. But she cradles the sharp needle tightly in her grasp. He cannot blame her for doing so.

Though he knows himself to be no harm to her, he finds it only routine that a young woman found all on her lonesome should wield anything resembling a weapon when faced with an intruder. He knows that is what he is; an intruder, someone who stumbled upon an innocent girl in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere.

"Jon." He breathes. "I am Jon. I killed a man down there." He nods his head behind him, gesturing towards the window that lay somewhere between the wall separating him and the outside world. Honesty shall be his saviour. He doesn't miss the way her breath catches, the way her body stills at his admission.

"And I climbed up here to escape my punishment." He licks his lips, wraps his dry fist around the tilt of his sword. "And you are?"

"Mother will be back, soon." The girl nods, to herself mostly. Her shoulders straighten, and her face stares straight at him. "You need to leave."

"Does your mother climb up your hair, too, or is there another way up here I completely bypassed?"

"She climbs. That is why it's there. That is why I'm here."

"To carry your mother up this tower?" He holds back a smirk, "Pardon me, My Lady, but I cannot help but find that information a little odd."

The woman, girl, stands, and he takes in her height. She is perhaps his height, perhaps an inch taller. She remains barefoot, pulls down on the edge of her long and thick purple dress, tugging it down her legs. It hands heavy on her tall frame and the material wraps over her chest smoothly, tightly pressed against her flesh and he imagines she sometimes struggles to find her breath.

Her hair hangs loose, behind her shoulders and sweeping the floor. It pools around her feet and covers a great amount of the distance between them, and it of course disappears behind him, around the curved wall and around his mind. How is that at all possible?

"You're injured."

Her voice is soft again, and she takes a tentative step forward, one bare foot making a move to close the space between them. She looks to him, as though for reassurance, and he only nods, tries to assuage her uneasiness.

"Aye." Jon confirms, glancing down at his arm, the gash on the inside of his elbow slowly beginning to dry out, his forearm stained red. "Though I have suffered worse."

"Where do you come from?" She asks, still far enough away from him for him to be able to read her face properly.

"Winterfell, My Lady."

"Where the King and Queen live?" She seems to lighten up at that, her face emitting the clearest of smiles.

Jon marvels at her expression, almost lost in a trance at her glee. She reacts as though it is a magical place, as though it is a place even beyond magic. Has she not ventured out? Where did she come from? "Aye. Have you never been, My Lady?"

"I am no Lady." She tells him, taking another step closer.

The floor is cold against her feet but she ignores the feeling, choosing to learn more of this new acquaintance instead. "Mother says I am barely a woman. She says I am a merely girl, will be until I can find the strength to leave her side." She seems to mumble to herself, ignoring his presence suddenly. "No, I have not been. I do wish to go one day, though."

"Perhaps you might." He tells her earnestly. If she wanted to go to Winterfell so badly, why wouldn't her Mother let her? She seemed old enough to make her own decisions. "Do you not wish to leave your mother then?"

"She says if I leave, she will die, that she only lives for me. But it all seems so strange to me, you see, because I have little to no memories of her from my childhood."

Unsure of why this girl is divulging her deepest confessions to him, Jon feigns a smile, glancing around her small chamber. "May I trouble you for some water?" Water, she does not have, but wine she does.

She seems to stop in her train of thought then, looking up at him with wide blue eyes and her lips taunt. However, she does not reply, and only turns on her heel to pour a fair amount of liquid from a decanter into a cup. She passes him the slushy drink with haste and then resumes her position, hands behind her hand, needle cradled tightly between her fingertips.

Perhaps she will kill him herself, and is only humouring his situation as of right now. Perhaps he will die with a final taste of wine on his lips and the final memory of a pretty face to haunt him.

"You're injured." She repeats to herself this time, eyes fixed on his bloody arm.

Jon nods again, "Aye. I fought a man who now lies dead. That isn't to say he didn't get a few slashes in."

"Are you a guard? Are you of the Kingsguard?"

Oh, Jon bashes himself, she thinks him to be truly good. Surely it would do better to lie to her, to tell her he was honourable beyond doubt and no petty thief. But his honour was without question still essence to his being, and he would not lie to someone so whole.

"No. But I believe the man I killed was."

"Ah." The hand she held out,the one that looked ready to grab his arm and heal his wound, retracts and she bites her bottom lip. "Will you harm me?"

"No, My-"

"Mother says strange men would quite happily bring me harm. She says any man is capable of hurting any woman. Mother says killers are repulsive."

He ushers the words before thinking on them, before twirling them around for flavour first, "Do you find me repulsive?"

"I do not know. I would not know a harmful man from a great one if he stood right before me. If he stood in your place. I have never known a man. I have never known anyone other than Mother."

"How is that possible?" Jon frowns, taking a long sip of the wine she offered him. It burns the back of his throat, soothes an ache he did not know he had been housing. "Have you- You have always been here, haven't you?" Realisation hits him for the fourth time this night, and he blinks back fatigue.

His legs are still exhausted from running, his arms still bruised from wielding a sword through the air and cutting down people who mean well.

The girl only nods, her hands moving from her front to her back again. She blinks, lips her lips and takes a step back, heading back over toward her bed.

"That is why you wish to see Winterfell." He pinpoints, shrugging his bloody hand through his dark hair and scratching the back of his neck.

"I believe it to be my home. My true home."

"How so?"

She peers up at him, through long lashes, her legs curling up beneath her on the furs that coat her bed. Her voice is low, silent almost as she whispers, her eyes glancing around as though to catch sight of something, someone, her Mother. "I believe she stole me."

Jon looks her over for a moment, before deciding to fuck decency. He plonks his bag of arrows and his bow down by the wall, and he avoids her gaze as he removes his belt, placing his sword on the ground, careful to avoid touching her hair.

"She is a witch."

"A witch?"

He has heard stories of giants, folk tales of wolves and ogres. But witches were the stuff of other legends entirely.

"A witch. Dark haired and dark souled. I am nothing like her. I am no image of her. Daughters are mirrors of their mothers, usually. I have read about this. I read a lot. She left a book once, one I doubt she ever wanted me to see. But it was strange, and dark, and nothing like the songs she left me to gander upon."

"If she is a witch, and you are not her daughter, then who would you be?"

It is a great mystery to him. Either this girl is sleep depraved and so lonely she has turned to fables of nonsense to make sense of her world, or she is telling the truth and therefor the stolen Lady of some noble household. That was what witches did, was it not? Steal young Ladies from their great houses and force some spell upon them and their true families.

"The King's."

"The King's?" Jon voices this in disbelief, "You would be the lost child of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn?"

He has heard the tales, though he never paid them much thought. He had been too young at the time, and when he was old enough to understand, he needn't care much for the royal family's chagrin. Stories told that their firstborn daughter had been taken from them, still in her white crib, surrounded by her favourite wooden toys. A deep-red haired witch who clothed herself in ruby dresses and capes was the witch in question.

"You don't believe me."

He would reach a hand out to her, if not for her obvious discomfort around him.

"Forgive me. I came here to seek rest and perhaps a little penance for my crimes, but I now find myself your counsellor. Maester, even."

"It seems to be you are the one needing a Maester." The redhead declares, a brow raised as she flicks a look down at his arm. She pulls on a part of her bedding then, tugging at a cloth and ripping a slice of it off, forcing her needle through the cotton.

Standing up again, she forcefully grabs his shoulders and pulls him towards her.

Is she so good, so decent that she will heal a man she does not know, a man who could be falsely claiming honour?

Is she so innocent that she does not see him fit for punishment rather than care?

Jon watches as she curls a hand around his forearm, and wraps the long strip of cloth around his wound, pressing tightly against the cut to make sure the cloth she knots stays secure. He is half sure she wishes to hurt him, hear him curse.

"Shit."

"Sorry."

Her hand drops then, and they go back around her back. But she does not move, does not step away from him.

"Why are you helping me?"

"I want to know if Mother was right."

"If all men are monsters?"

"If all men are volatile?"

"I believe 'revolting' was the correct term, no?" He sees a hint of a smirk toying on her lips and he licks his lips, shifts his eyes to her hair.

With a dare, a nerve, "Am I, then? Do I seem revolting to you?"

"You do wish to seek penance for your crimes, do you not?" He nods once, almost doesn't. "Then that is enough for me." She speaks truthfully, tongue wetting her lips, feeling under heat beneath his gaze. "Monsters, volatile men, do not seek absolution."

"Then what do they seek?"

"I imagine a great many number of things. But none of them penance."

He smiles, baffled by the woman before him. His day started out with thievery, with bread and wine and small folk telling him of their woes. His night, however, was now being spent with some saint of a girl who almost could not see violence as being true.

"Read that in one of those books, did you?" He is not a man of many words. Books were never his favourite possession.

"I assumed." She states. "But, you do need to leave soon. I gather my ladder is still there…"

"It is, aye." He feels the effect of the wine she had given him begin to take him over. "Though I could do with a rest." Not to intrude anymore. Not to cloud your space. To rest and recuperate and tomorrow face my sins.

"Mother will be here come morrow. She arrives shortly after daybreak." Her arms cross over her chest, fingers curling around her elbows as they fold. "I happen to think a man, a strange man, here would frighten her."

"What if you told her of our conversation? What if you told her of who I was?"

"Still, I-"

"Do you not still believe her to be a witch? A monster like that surely would not frighten so easily."

"She will assume-"

"She will assume that a thief stole into your tower and stole you and your astounding long hair and the space between your legs without so much as a beg. She will take me for a thief. And I am. She will be right."

"But you have done none of those things. Not really." The feels the overwhelming need to point out this fact, though she had been the one to broach the topic in the first place, "You had no way of knowing I was here. And you have not stolen me or my locks or my… You have not even begged for sleep, only asked."

"And yet she will refuse my presence here."

"And yet she will refuse your presence here." With a clearing of the throat, she continues, "But she cannot refuse you if you have already left."

"So you wish to banish me then, to send me back down below where death surely awaits me?" He is teasing her, toying with her sensibilities, she knows this. "Me, your confidante?"

She rolls her eyes, feels an odd sense of ease around this man, "You are not my confidante." Her eyes lift to his, her voice softening. "You are my escape plan."

It happens suddenly, her urge to pack her belongings and follow him anywhere. But she could do it, would do it if he let her.

"And what would being one's escape plan entail?"

"You will help me, free me," she pauses, smoothes a hand down her side, "take me home."

"Home? To the King you only think could be your Father? The King and Queen you have never met not seen nor even been in the same village as?" He blinks back sleep, allows himself to sit down on the end of her bed. She does not react. "And what if this plan fails?"

"We hang, surely. You face the noose, in either outcome. Except if I am who I believe myself to be. If you return me home, if you take me back where I belong, where I am meant to be, I can keep you from harm. I can keep you from the hangman's noose."

"Wouldn't that be a tale for the small folk? Saved the King's long lost daughter. Village thief escapes death due to secret Princess' loyalty." He wants to laugh at the quip, at the possibility. But he refrains. She is serious. She seems like she deserves better. "How would we even leave? Your hair is the ladder. I do not know how it got to be so long but surely there is a reason-"

"She says it is magic. Mother. She says that every year it grows three feet longer. I do not know why. But, as much as I do enjoy running my fingers through it or brushing it out when utter boredom strikes me, I am willing to cut it. The ladder will keep with the hair that holds it."

Jon is completely thrown by the whole situation. Magic hair and stolen princesses and evil witches. He stole some bread. His day was never supposed to end like this.

"Are you afraid of me, at all?" He has killed a man, a man who served the King she believed to belong to, and confessed to doing so. "I am a thief."

"Thief, beggar, take me away." She pleaded, her eyes as bright as fresh ice. "You cannot be here when Mother arrives. But you can leave and take me with you. I will not be a burden, you'll see."

"If anyone is to be a burden, it would be me, I believe." He tells her, perhaps a little too honestly. "This will not be easy."

"Good. I long for something that isn't stitching or reading or cleaning."

Show me something the people write songs about, she wants to ask of him. But he would only smirk, laugh, refuse her. He is a thief, and she a lonely girl with now only two human interactions to her name. The second has been handled surprisingly well, she applauds herself. Perhaps they will cross paths with more people on their journey and she can come to know more folk, make up for years past.

"May I rest first then, Princess?"

"Yes. But we must leave before daybreak. I will wake you."

She watches as he shifts onto the floor, manages to makes a bed for himself with his bag and a wool cloth from his belongings. Fatigue has caught up with him, and he will need sleep if he is to actually follow through with this mad plan of hers, she who seems almost giddy at the prospect of evading her supposed Mother.

"And… Sansa. My name? It's Sansa. And not Princess."

"Aye, as you say, Princess."

She cannot tell if it's a jest, or if he truly wishes to call her Princess because he believes that to be her rightful title. But it matters none.

Even if this ends in both of their demises, it would have been worth the adventure she wishes to gain from it, Sansa thinks as she lies down beneath her furs, intentionally dropping one to the floor for him to borrow. But if she can keep a handsome, half-decent man from the hangman's noose, did that not mean something?

Princess were stolen by princes in the songs, in the stories she grew up being forced to believe. But she was stolen by no prince, but a thief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll check this over for spelling tomorrow if I find time, and add tags and notes then. I procrastinated over this for so long. Hopefully it turned out alright? I'll try and update whenever I can. Let me know what you thought, please :)


	2. Chapter Two

When the sky is still a deep shade of blue, and the birds have only just begun chirping, Sansa thinks to wake the man lying cold on the floor beside her.

His black locks are tussled, his leather breeches squeaking as he moves, sits up and rubs a hand over his face.

Sansa brings a hand up to her own face, winds her fist up in front of her mouth and turns, biting down into creased knuckles. It’s a nervous habit of hers.

“Is it daybreak?”

“Almost. Mother will be here soon.” She stands, clears her throat. “We must leave.”

He, Jon, seems to grimace as he nods, evidently lacking enthusiasm. He moves his shoulders, stretches his arms out before rising to his feet in seconds, leaping up from his sitting position into a crouch. Sansa watches him, placing both hands by her sides against the thick mattress beneath her weight.

His head drops, wrapping up his belongings quickly. Then his eyes shift to her legs and he pauses, one hand in his bag. “Do you not have shoes, Princess?”

Following his gaze, the girl looks down at her feet, curling her toes and twisting her ankles from side to side. She blinks once, twice, before glancing back up at him with a frown. “I have never needed them.” She tells him honestly, and Jon takes a moment to think up a solution.

He shoves his clothes into his bag, pulls over the dirtied flap, and stands fully, hands on his hips. His fingers curl around the wool, tapping and crinkling the material softly. “We will stick to grass and mud then, Princess.”

“What other kinds of ground are there?”

Jon is tempted to chuckle at her question, to laugh at her innocence. But she has never stepped outside, has never known true daylight, safe for the small glimmers she catches from the window gifted to her.

“Well, there are cobbles.” He stops, frowns as he thinks, “Stones?”

“Oh. Can we not walk on cobbles?” She tries, blue eyes wide and wondering.

“I can. But you- Without shoes, your feet will sore rather quickly.” He explains to her, licking his lips. “I know where to find you some shoes.” He nods to himself, spinning back around to pick up his bag of arrows and his bow. Jon slides the straps over his shoulders, peeks a look at her when she asks,

“What happens if we only have stones to walk on?”

“Then I will carry you. If you’d allow it.”

Instead of replying Sansa only stands, following his lead and rummaging around to gather her needed items. She doesn’t own much of great necessity. But a small book and a rusty flask and a long hair accessory make their way into a bag she could have only sown herself.

“Jon?” She pulls his attention, touches his arm. “Would you…” She cuts herself short, grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging on it. “Can you cut it?” Her voice is low, words obviously hard for her to usher.

He nods, reaching into the bag across his chest, hanging at his side, and pulling out a knife. The blade makes her gasp, the weapon a new discovery for her. She reaches out for it, curiosity taking control.

He hands over the sharp knife, letting her cradle it carefully with fresh eyes and gentle hands. He has to pull it back from her grasp when she goes for the tip, dragging a finger along the flat side of the blade ever so slowly.

“You have to tell me where.”

Sansa gulps, closing her eyes as her hands bunch up her hair, the pile growing and growing until she has a hefty bundle of locks in her arms, cradling her precious hair to her chest. She moves her hand to her lap, swaying it back and forth, telling him where to slice her hair.

Jon lowers with an uneasy final glance at her face. It is far too long to carry along, far too heavy to lift. A small part of him wants to refuse her request, to stop himself from committing such a crime. She is kissed by fire, and the fire is wild and spreading.

He thinks it is almost as though he is extinguishing the flame of a roaring dragon when he grabs the thick braid of hair hanging before him, fist curling around its width as he slides the blade of his knife back and forth, back and forth over the strands, cutting them off from their lifeline.

His knuckles brush against her thighs as he cuts her hair, and she stiffens, squeezing her legs shut tight. Jon sighs, dropping his gaze to the floor as he avoids any contact, pulling on her hair and forcing the blade through her braid until it tears, the incredibly long stream of hair falling to the floor with a gust of air.

He rises to meet her level, swallows a breath. “Gone.”

Sansa’s eyes flicker open, her ice blue stare directly dropping onto the mass of red pooled at her feet. Its sparkle seems to diminish, its supposed magic fading, Jon notes.

“Thank you, Jon.” She avoids his gaze, drops the hair cradled in her arms and lets it fall to the ground. It trails behind her, sweeping past her legs and stopping a couple of inches above her feet. The braid is cut, but only loose. It will take some time to unravel.

She gathers her belongings and waits for him, allowing him a moment to check his bag over his shoulder and his bows and his sword at his hip. He secures it, makes sure the sheath rests safely along his trouser leg.

When he is ready, he heads straight for the wall, disappearing behind it without a second thought, Sansa trailing behind him slowly. She takes nervous steps, he can tell, and she keeps sniffling.

He doesn’t want to question whether she is crying, so instead he just ushers her forward when they reach the end of the curb, calloused hands meeting the stop of the curved wall.

“Will it hold?”

“I suppose this is how we find out.” Sansa tugs at the long sleeves of her dress, thoughtfully licking her lips and chewing at the insides of her cheeks. She steps forward, pulls her bag over her shoulder and across her body much like Jon had.

Jon lifts a brow, grabbing the edge of the makeshift rope and vines. He tugs on it, checking it for movement. The ladder does not budge, and he tries for a smile. “Ladies first.”

“So I can fall to my demise first and you’re free to live out the rest of your days in my tower?” She quips with a hint of a grin, but he can sense the dread lying beneath her expression.

The man’s eyes darken, his face brooding, “So I can keep hold of the ladder and you can safely reach the bottom.”

“But who shall hold it for you?”

“Nobody, Princess. It will be less of a crime if I fall to my death than if you do.”

Sansa grips the ledge of the window, peering outside into the lightening sky. The sun is rising, the blue birds chirping through she has yet to see any. Without allowing herself another moment to second guess her decision, she swings one leg over the window frame, fingers hanging onto the ladder’s edge securely. Her knuckles whiten, her teeth sharp as her right left joins her left and she begins her descent.

She almost stumbles down some of the slats of wood, and her bare feet burn from pressing against the sharp and hard surface.

She reaches the bottom much faster than she thought she might, hair sweeping along the dirty grass with feather-light touches. She turns and sighs, her breath catching as he toes sink into the muddy ground. The air is warm, the sun still rising but the air swept up in a cool wind.

She knows Jon is following her; she can hear him grunting from midway down the ladder. She doesn’t watch him though, her eyes instead focused on the limp body lying at the foot of a bolder.

Sansa steps closer, crushing small flowers beneath her soft walk. She holds her breath, sucking in her lips as she admires the body, the bloody work of art left behind by her new companion.

“You shouldn’t look.” Jon speaks from over her shoulder, tone low and deep, dark almost.

He is right. She shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have seen what he was capable of doing.

“Mother comes from down there.” She points out a finger towards a set of large shrubs, lining a thin pathway into the woods.

Jon knows the direction she means to emerge from, having sheepishly ran out from behind those exact shrubs the night before. She was coming from the village, from where most of the townspeople live and dine and breathe.

But he knows another way around to the village’s end, to the Kingdom’s centre. Winterfell’s royal castle lies on the far-end of the dominion.

“We’ll go this way.”

He leads the way in the opposite direction, down an open path of grass and flowers.

It takes Sansa a moment to follow him, her legs unsteady and her shoulders raised. She pouts, surely unknowingly, and Jon sighs.

“You can always climb back up that ladder.”

“No.” She sounds resolute, determined suddenly. “No. Take me away. I have been kept here far too long.”

She follows his path after that, a couple of steps behind him, watching the way his bag sways at his side and his packed arrows bounce only slightly when he steps over bumps in the dirt track.

She has to stop herself from falling, from stumbling and tripping over her own feet or hair as they walk. Her red locks flow at her back, tangling in the knitted string of her bag.

The sights to behold catch her breath in her throat for a good portion of their walk. The sun is shining, inch by growing inch. The birds she has admired and dreamt about chirp and squeak and sing alongside her whenever she catches herself off-guard by singing unannounced.

Jon only chuckles, smiles, continues leading her somewhere far away.

“Do you mind?”

“Your songs?” He bares his teeth, shoots her a look. “No. Not nearly as much as I should.”

He finds himself appreciating the sound of her voice, the melodious tone allowing his thoughts to sweet places to drift whenever she sings. It isn’t all dark and gloomy and saddening when she sings about flowers and frogs and lights.

Perhaps he’s foolish; a young felon of a man of twenty amused by the gentle songs of an innocent girl who knows nothing of the world or the love or the people of which she sings about.

“Where will we go?”

“Someplace I doubt your Mother will ever step foot.” He answers, slowing his pace until she falls into place beside him.

She doesn’t question this, doesn’t think to. She will trust him. She has nobody else.

They carry on this way for a little while; she enjoying the sounds of nature with wide gawking eyes and a curious spirit, he admiring her flushes and giggles as something entirely foreign to her catches her eye. It amazes him that she knows so little of anything, that she has never seen such beautiful sights.

These woods are his safe-place, his home almost. He raised himself, taught himself to hunt and fight. He discovered everything himself, practically.

To think that somebody who so clearly and sweetly adores wildlife and fauna and flora upon their first true glance has been kept away from such a beauty for so long, for their entire life, baffles him. She deserves to know such things, to see such sights, to experience such fresh breaths of air.

Sometime later, when the sky is truly bright and the moon is hidden far away, they have reached the end of this part of the woods. The muddied dirt turns to cobbles, and Sansa’s eyes stare down at the bumpy rocks deeply embedded in the soiled floor.

She sees what she can only gather is a building up ahead, all stained white bricks and unhinging wooden doors. It is falling apart. The sign above the door reads ‘Sam’s Corner’, though the C is faded and the letters are crooked.

She can only wonder what is inside, stomach clenching at the thought. What if there are more people? She isn’t truly sure she is ready for such encounters quite yet.

“Jon.”

He nods once, with a slight groan and a sniffle, before he bends his knees and tentatively picks her up.

Sansa gathers her hair, dragging it off of the ground, and holding it in her arms. Strands hang down her back, trailing against Jon’s arms as he carries her down the cobbled road, one arm tucked beneath her knees and over her dress, palm pressed against the outside of her thigh to hold her safely. His left arm is around her back, keeping her in a ball against him.

She can hear his breathing against her chest, her cheek pressed against his head. His hair oddly smells like wine and sweat, with a hint of musk and wood. She tries not to think too much of it, but his scent is strong against her and she likes it, breathing in the smell of his hair and neck carelessly. She hasn’t known a man’s smell.

“Have you found something you liked?”

Her cheeks redden at that, at the realisation he has caught her smelling him. Face flushed, Sansa buries her head into the crook of his head, tightening her hold on her hair and his shoulder for support.

He is her lifeline at this point.

“Perhaps.” She mumbles, into the thick tearing wool of his clothes, trying to avoid her growing desire to take in any further inhales of his enchanting scent.

“I have, if that at all helps you accept or deny your confusion.”

She peeks up at the side of his face, watching as a smirk graces his lips as he licks them. Her hair is lying against her chest, but it is also beneath his chin, and she can imagine he has had more than a fair amount of her flowery smell forced upon him.

“It does.” She tells him truthfully.

It’s strange; this sense of calmness, of ease, she feels around a complete stranger.

“Roses and lavender.” She blushes again, moving her gaze from his smile to his neck, watching as the vein beneath his skin pulsates. She wants to touch it, curious to know if his heart beats the same as her own.

“Is that as enchanting a smell as wood and wine?”

'I wouldn’t know’, she wants to add. 'I wouldn’t know any smell other than my own or yours or Mothers. Mother smelt of wax and leaves. Yours seems to be the loveliest.’

“I know nothing on that note. Though I imagine a combination of both would smell rather dangerous.”

“Does that mean good or bad?”

“It should be bad. Sometimes it can be good, very good. Enchanting, you might say.” Jon toys with words, teasing her earlier question.

She smiles briefly, ducking her head back into the space between his neck and shoulder for only a moment until he stops.

He lowers her to the ground, her bare feet meeting cobbles covered in mucky dried dirt. It takes a second or two before his hands leave her, skin retracting from her soft dress and his wipes his hands down his sides.

His tussled hair shifts in the wind’s blow, and she pulls her own to the side, down past her shoulder, braid somewhat dishevelled.

The building is before them, the door at their feet and the sign close to dropping on their heads.

“What is this place?”

“Home.”

Before she can ask anything else, pry any more details from him, he is pulling the creaky old door open, letting an array of loud voices come crashing into them.

There is crashing coming from inside the place she hears him call a 'pub’, and the sound of what she can only assume are drunken men stills her. But Jon places a hand on her back, not too low down, and ushers her forward.

Sansa holds her breath, swallowing down her nerves. She wanted to get out, to be free, to meet people.

And if that means meeting men who drink pints and spill their drinks and - she sees through the doorway - lap up said spilt drinks at the breasts of women, so be it. This is her opportunity.

“Ready?”


	3. Chapter Three

"Who's your little friend, Jon?"

The words are in the air before Sansa's feet have barely touched the hard ground.

"Nobody you need to worry about." Jon retorts, lets his hands fall from her waist and brush down his sides. He grips the side of his bag then, trudges forward, past the blonde woman.

She's tall - probably as tall as Sansa - and she's beautiful.

"How come she's here then?"

Sansa doesn't dare speak up to voice a reply, so she just follows Jon ahead as he leads her to a crooked table in the back of the pub.

It's a dark corner and there's a large man approaching them. His beard is red, his hair matching, and he smirks almost wickedly as he towers over them both. Sansa has never seen anyone so imposing. Then again, she has barely seen anyone at all, she thinks with the smallest of sighs.

"Because I brought her 'ere, and you know you like it when I come 'ere. Don't you, Val?"

Jon is almost grinning, and the deep blonde's lip curls as she smacks a hand on his shoulder, shoving him backwards into Sansa.

"Sorry, Princess." His hand finds her arm, wrapping around her elbow for a moment, to check her over.

Sansa smiles faintly as she ducks her head, trying to ignore his touch. She isn't sure whether Jon has noticed he is still holding onto her or not when the large bearded man ushers them down into the rusty old booth. The wooden benches are slanted, the edges frayed with splinters of wood laying on the floor below.

"I'll bring you some ale."

Jon nods, and Sansa copies, and he removes his hand. When he urges her forward to sit down, Sansa takes a second to gather her skirts, pulling on the length of her long dress until it creases in her lap as she sits. Her hair sways behind her, and she watches as Jon collects the ends and places them in her lap, too, with the briefest of smiles.

He swans off then, over to where the bearded man in preparing some bottles of something, and Sansa is left alone to her own devises.

The pub, or as he so affectionately called it 'home', smells of cooked meat and drink. It's an interesting smell, one Sansa isn't sure she could ever grow fond or even accustomed to.

"My, your hair's long, ain't it?"

The blonde woman sits herself down opposite Sansa, plonking her bottom down on the hard wood with an 'oof' and a groan. She pulls a face before staring back up at the redhead with squinted eyes. It doesn't dull her features, and Sansa innocently flushes.

"Yes. It is."

"Red, too." Val nods, clears her throat as she leans over the table with an open hand, her fingers reaching, "May I?"

Brushing a strand behind her ear first, Sansa places the end of her long braid on the table in front of her, the length of her hair crinkling before her.

"How'd the bloody hell you let it get so long then?"

"Mother-"

She barely gets the word out before Jon is once again at her side, sliding a piece of cloth down in front of her and answering in her place.

"It's a mystery to you and I both."

Val nods once, chews at her bottom lip for a moment before moving to stand up. She lets Jon take her place, but stands with her hands at her hips when he doesn't move, doesn't sit.

"Lemon cakes." The food on the table catches her eyes and the blonde smirks, lifting a sharp brow suggestively, "You do treat your ladies right, don't you, Jon Snow?"

"Aye."

He nods once, twice, and places a hand on her lower back. "Can we talk for a moment?"

"Aye, we can. Only for a moment though. Can't leave your damsel friend by her lonesome for too long. I fear those drunken swines are gonna start migrating over to her table soon." She peaks pointedly, with a quick look down to the other end of the pub where old men are having loud discourse over empty goblets.

They walk away after that, all quiet and mumbling, and Sansa pretend she hadn't heard Val's comment.

Old drunken men aren't safe, aren't harmless. And she hopes Jon will come back soon.

Glancing down at the food on the table, Sansa reaches down for the smallest slice of the confection. It's soft yet dry, and golden yellow with white powder covering its lid.

It smells of lemon, of fresh acidity and it's charming.

She nimbly tears off the tiniest of pieces and drags it up to her mouth with parted, hungry lips. She hasn't eaten since Mother left her the day before.

It's sweet, yet somehow bitter, but she enjoys it all the same.

She follows the small piece with a bigger one, and this one with an even large one.

By the time Jon is back in her sights, she has eaten all four pieces of lemon cake he had afforded her, and she's licking her fingers, savouring the taste with closed eyes.

He smiles, again, foolishly, and burns the sight to memory.

Before he reaches her though, rejoining her at the table, he pulls on the back of the man's clothes walking beside him. The man works here at Tormund's - the bearded man's - pub.

"Ready more lemon cake and I will leave you be for the rest of the day." Jon pauses, flicks some hair from his eyes, "And ale."

"Aye." Her hurries off with a solemn face, and Jon finally sits down opposite Sansa.

"Good?"

"Amazing." She gushes once her eyes flicker open, all wide and glazed over. He enjoyed her eat, enjoyed it oh so very much.

The black haired man holds her gaze, spots Tormund approaching them out of the corner of his eye, "Good."

"You requested some ale, old friend?" He shoves the horn down on the table. It rattles and the drink overflows and Sansa frowns when droplets spill onto her hair.

"Still taste like piss, does it?"

"Aye." Tormund places both hands on the table, palms down, "When has it not?"

"You'd think after so many years, you'd have learnt how to make a good ale."

"Why don't you go brew us some then, Snow?" He jests with a deep laugh, all proud and large. Scrubbing at his beard, he tilts his head in Sansa's direction. "She don't talk much."

"I talk plenty."

Sansa slips, and reddens when the large man shoots her a grin.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I talk plenty. I sing, too."

Jon internally groans at that. The people here do not like songs; at least not those he is sure she refers to, she voices when she sings.

"Why don't you sing us something then?"

"Perhaps I will." She's almost daring him to encourage her, almost daring herself to take up the offer.

"She won't sing what you expect her to, Tormund."

"No? You won't sing me any songs of wet lasses and their cunt husbands?"

"Tormund."

The words are vulgar, but Sansa doesn' think he means them harshly.

"No. Those aren't my songs to be sung."

She waits until Jon has sipped from his drink before she copies, prying the horn from his hands and taking repeated sips. It burns her throat. Jon was right; the taste was atrociously off, wrong.

"Here y'are"

Looking up again, there are a pair of brown boots swaying in front of her, the laces hanging from Val's fingers. The dark blonde smiles and hands them to Sansa, licking her lips.

"Should fit. If not, let me know and I'll see what I've got."

Sansa isn't sure what Jon had told her, but she also drops a key and a shred of emerald ribbon in Sansa's lap before waltzing away.

Tormund has walked away, she notes, and Jon is left staring at her as she stares at the boots.

Her fingers twitch, her teeth biting at her bottom lip.

"You know how to lace up, don't you?"

"Yes."

Jon sighs, not too deep, not too huskily. And he stands, and approaches her side of the bench. He drops to his knees and waves his hands around her front as she turns to face him. "May I?"

"Yes."

He lifts one of her legs then, dropping her foot onto his bent knee as he pries the right boot from her hands. She doesn't let on when it tickles, when his touch grazes her skin and she wants to jump out of her gooseflesh.

It's an odd feeling, when the boot is encased around her foot and she isn't as cold as she was before. It's warm and sweaty but not terrible.

He copies with the other foot, but he lets her lace up both boots herself. They stop mid-calf and the brown is darker than what Sansa would have chosen for herself.

"There." He taps her ankle, "Perfect."

Something in her lap catches Jon's eye and he reaches forward without thinking, grabbing the small piece of rusty metal from between her legs.

The key oddly shines in his hand and he clears his throat. "This was for me, not you." He stands, brushes his hands off, "Sorry."

It's well past midday by the time she has finished eating her cakes and cannot handle another one. The ale has been drunk, and she is falling restless. Smalltalk has been made with Tormund and the bald man who kept bringing her cake.

It's strange to her, foreign even. She doesn't fill her belly with delicious cakes or swallow down as much man's ale as she can muster.

The sun outside has faded, and the sky is darkening into a grey colour as rain begins to fall down. It's a heavy pour and the noise of the spluttering raindrops bounces off the roof of the pub to echo in the quiet silence outside.

All Sansa can hear is the cluster of pots being clashed together, and drunken men arguing over petty nothings, and the sound of Jon's voice talking to her.

"Are you tired, Princess?" He speaks her nickname quietly, softly as to avoid any eavesdroppers' ears.

Her lashes flutter and she licks her lip slowly, fingers dancing back and forth over the table's ledge. It's dangerous. To be full and tipsy and tired when there are very few, if any, people around she trusts.

But Jon has made her a promise, and she believes no harm will come to her as long as he is around. It's selfish, she thinks; because she doesn't know what she will do if ever the day comes when he will leave her, when he will no longer be around and she has yet to reach winterfell.

Choosing to remain hopeful in the face of possible danger, Sansa nods to answer him. Her shoulders slouch, and her dry lips part to maybe try and voice something.

"Come."

She can see the key in his hand, can hear him mumble something to Tormund or the bald man or Val even. But the words escape her, and suddenly she is being picked up and carried.

The arms that collect her are freshly familiar, and she nuzzles her head deeper into Jon's neck when he walks them to the back of the pub, kicking open one door and shouldering open another.

There is a slight, tightly wound set of stairs in front of her then, and she is sure Jon will ask her to walk up them to make the trip easier. She doesn't know where they lead, but perhaps it will be quiet.

Instead of letting her down, however, he tells her to gather her hair and skirts to avoid tripping, and to hold onto him. She does, for dear life, and her shoulders push so closely into his chest she is sure they will penetrate his skin.

It's a squeeze, to make it up that one small but cramped flight of stairs.

There are two rooms at the top of the stairs, and Jon heads towards the one on the left. He drops her loosely, makes sure she is steady against the low doorframe before he lets go of her and shoves the key in the lock.

It opens swiftly, and Sansa has to wonder how one small pub can hold another floor. The room isn't big. There is only one bed in the corner, and one table against the adjacent wall, with one chair tucked under it.

The walls are rustic, and cracking, and the room itself smells of ale and wood. It's heavily intoxicating, oddly refreshing.

The window behind the bed is open and Jon makes a rush to shut it. She wonders if this is his room, why he refers to the pub downstairs as 'home'. But her thoughts shut off when he walks her forward, palms against her back, moving her towards the bed.

She drops down onto the mattress without a complaint, lets her hair and dress sweep along the floor without a care in the world.

"Sleep."

She can feel him brush a sand of hair from her face, pulling her loose braid to the side to frame her face and reveal her tiredness.

Her fatigued eyes flicker open though, and she frowns. "Aren't you tired?"

"I'll sleep when I'm dead, Princess."

"Sansa. I told you," she tosses, turns over to lie on her back, already half in slumber, "my name is Sansa. Are you saving me, thief?"

"I'm freeing you." He's knelt before her, and he is blurry in her vision. "And you're saving me."

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a tumblr gifset I made. Fairy tale alternate universes are my absolute vice.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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